Untitled
by justpeachee
Summary: John is trying to cope with life without Sherlock, without much success. This is post The Reichenbach Fall, so if you haven't gotten that far, please be aware of spoilers! Also, this is Johnlock Slash, you know, M/M. Don't like? Don't read. This is my first published fanfic ever, so please, enjoy and rate!


Usual Disclaimer:

I don't own Sherlock, I just like to play in their world. Though, the situation is mine :)

My Disclaimer:

I support slash, yaoi, M/M, and any variation on that; if you don't like it, don't read it. Reviews are welcomed and supported! Please enjoy!

The room was terribly muggy and hot, so hot. John intentionally turned off the air in the flat. He wanted to feel the heat on his body. With so much humidity both outside and inside, even if it was past the point of comfort ability; it made the sweat come so much faster. The heat was tinting his normally pale skin into a damp crimson laced with lust. it made it easier to imagine breath on the back of his neck; like someone was panting on the back of his neck.

The room was filled, with more than just heat. Heavy panting. Moans. Creaking from the bed that had certainly seen better days in the past decade or two.

"Sher…ah…Sherlock…..Yes." the words came out little more that a husky whisper but they echoed in John's ears.

His left hand was gripping the head board hard enough to make his knuckles turn white and his bicep was beginning to tremble from the exertion. His right arm was just was also starting to burn from overuse, but for a different reason.

He continued to pump his pulsing member into his clenched fist, shallowly thrusting in quick burst, trying to coax his orgasm to at least begin to ebb. He had lost track of how long this session was taking, trying to lose himself in the moment, but after what seemed like hours, the moment still refused to fully encompass him in some sort of reality. But he wanted this release, he needed this release, he was _desperate_ for this release. The past, dozen times (it seems) the desired outcome always seemed to be out of his reach…hopefully this time would be different.

He tried to imagine every last detail of the man that has lead him to distraction.

"_Can we not do this this time?" John said internally glowing, outwardly trying to look disgusted._

"_Do what?" his silky voice drifted to John's ears and yet seemed to settle in his heart. Like most of his words._

"_You being all mysterious with your cheek bones and turning up your collar so you look cool." ~And so many other things~ he left the latter unsaid…._

"AH! Oh god…yes Sherlock…."

_His eyes, the most clearest green, he could swear he could see Sherlock's soul through his eyes; the soul some people would swear he had sold or was just plain born without…John tried not to stare too long into those eyes; he could always feel his self-control begin to unravel the longer he fell into those eyes._

"Mmmm, yeah….GOD yes…..like that…just like that."

_The sky was gray._

John's eyebrows quickly knitted together.

"_This phone call…it's…it's my note."_

His thrusts falter.

"Sherlock…" his voice came out shaky, and not in the shaky way he had hoped for when he started this scene.

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me!"_

_His hair, the beautiful dark hair that John had always dreamt of running his hands through, knotting his fingers in the silky locks, was blowing away from his forehead; the forehead that John had longed to trail soft kisses down onto the angled cheekbones…_

"_Can you do this for me?_

His breath caught in his throat. His eyes flew open, half expecting to be standing on the street looking three stories up and the silhouette of the man of whom he had come to desire and…love.

"No…!" John's voice clawed out from his throat. Sweat rolled down his face stinging his eyes, and desperately tried to convince himself that that was the cause for the tears that were now leaking from his eyes, down the planes of his face.

"_Goodbye John."_

_John's world, and heart, stopped. The thin frame of the man that he had worked and lived with for the past three years, the man who had come to him in one of his darkest hours, the man who John was secretly convinced was his own personal angel, was plummeting to Earth before his eyes._

'_No…Sher…no…'_

"SHERLOCK!" John tried to shout, but his voice only allowed him to produce a strangled half sob. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to push out the horrible scene out of his mind, he even gripped his now slacking member even tighter and he slammed his other fisted hand into the immovable wall; anything to force the memory out.

But it didn't matter. Behind his clenched eyes he saw the wind pushing Sherlock's coat away from his thin frame. Sherlock's hands flailed in front of him as if trying to ward off the fast approaching end. John's mind screamed at him to shut his eyes, but he couldn't; he had promised. The cracking force of Sherlock's body making contact to the unyielding cement was muffled only by the pounding of John's heart in his head that was causing his temples to pulse and the colors to begin draining out of the world.

"NOOOO!" John shrieked. "No! No! No! NOO!" Each plea of desperation was punctuated by another crack of his clenched fist striking the wall.

Before the blurred haze of shock fell onto his mind he remembered the last glimpse he had of the beautiful blue eyes. The eyes that he did everything he could to not get caught getting lost in, was of them unwaveringly staring, blank and hollow, into the grey sky; blood smeared across the long lashes and running like mock tears on the porcelain skin. And looking into those empty, _dead, _eyes was probably the worst reality of all.

His now bleeding hands flew to his head and clutched at his short honey blond hair.

"Please, no. Sherlock. Come back….please."

John folded in on himself. The tears were now flowing freely down his face. His mouth attempted to say more; there was always more to say, but the words just would not come. He rocked over on his side, drawing his knees up to his chest in some feeble effort to lessen the weight that had settled where his heart had should have been beating warmly instead of the block of ice it always seemed to turn to when he remembered that day, which he was sure he did far too often. He turned his face into the pillow, trying to silence the breathless sobs that he knew was going to follow this outbreak; it always did.

His breath hitched and his voice finally breaks free. John Watson, who served in her majesty's army spending most of his days sewing flesh of wounded soldiers back together, who has stared at death in the eyes of the people who he couldn't save, lets out a quavering, broken wail of despair.


End file.
